Xenophobia
by Avogadro's Minion
Summary: A Russian family is visiting Vegas. After one of them is killed, Grissom and his team must bring the killer to justice. But this time, they must contend with language and cultural differences. Both reading and reviewing are encouraged.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes**: This is set somewhere around Season 1 or Season 2. A note about language: conversations of length only in Russian will be in tildes; conversations going through a translator are simply left in English and italicized, out of respect for everyone's sanity. Huge thanks and much chocolate to Cam for beta-ing for me.

**Disclaimer**: CSI belongs to Alliance and CBS. I do not own it, nor am I likely to in the remotely plausible future. I'm not making any money off this either, still a broke college student.

**Chapter 1**

Las Vegas was quiet that night, or so it seemed. There was work to be done, yes, as there always was, but there was also time enough for Grissom to sit for a few minutes, quietly watching his tarantula in her tank as he contemplated his current caseload. The phone on his desk rang, startling both man and spider. "Grissom. Oh, hello, Jim. What have we got?"

"Shooting at the Tangiers. At least one dead body and another on the way to the hospital. Oh, and a kid. Unhurt, but scared out of his wits."

"I don't blame him. How old's the kid?" Grissom sighed. The poor kid was going to have nightmares for months, in all likelihood. He'd certainly seen enough kids left orphaned by murder to know the trauma it caused. This child's life would never be the same again.

"We're not sure, he only speaks Russian. At least, we're pretty sure it's Russian. We've got a social worker down here, but she can't speak to him either."

"Can we get a translator?"

"Not till tomorrow; we'll bring over one of the Russian professors from WLVU."

"I can't wait that long." There was information he needed tonight to help solve this case, and a child who deserved answers as soon as possible, however bad they may be.

"Unless you've got a Russian speaker in the lab, you don't have a whole lot of choice."

"I'll be down there as soon as I can." The phone was returned to the cradle with a clicking noise. Vegas was quiet no more. "Damn it, why don't we put information like that in the personnel files?"

"Information like what?" Warrick asked. It was unusual to hear Grissom swear; clearly, something was eating him.

Grissom looked up from his desk to find the rest of the team standing in his doorway, waiting for him. "All right guys, we've got a shooting at the Tangiers. We're all on this one. Warrick, put out a page. If there's anyone in this lab who speaks even semi-decent Russian, I want them in my office, now."

"You got it."

* * *

Across the lab, Greg walked into the locker room. He looked up, startled. "Annie? I thought you worked days?"

"I did. Shift change."

"Ah. Nice to see you around more. How's life over in Tox?"

"Caught up, for once, as soon as I run the next sample through the GCMS. See you around."

"Yeah, I'll catch you later." With that, the two lab technicians headed off to their respective labs. No sooner had Annie grabbed her lab glasses, than her pager went off. She checked the message and headed down the hallway.

"Hey, Grissom. I hear you're looking for Russian speakers?" Annie hovered in Grissom's doorway.

"You speak Russian, Annie? I didn't know that. How well?" It had seemed unlikely that anyone in the lab spoke Russian—Spanish was a far more common second language in the American Southwest—but the attempt appeared to have paid off.

"Well enough to function on the streets of Moscow most of the time, or at least it was five years ago. I haven't had much chance to keep in practice since I graduated, so my vocabulary is a bit limited, and I can't promise perfect grammar, but I can probably manage to get my point across. Why do you ask?"

"I need a translator. We can't get a professor from WLVU until tomorrow, and I can't wait that long."

"How desperate are you?"

"Desperate."

"Well, it'll be very makeshift; speaking and translating are completely different skills, and I haven't done a lot of translation work. But I'd be willing to try it. Just let me run back to the lab and grab my dictionary and ditch the lab coat. Oh, and could you make sure we have a tape recorder available?"

"A tape recorder? Will do. "

"Awesome. Make sure the expert listens to the tape and double-checks it."

"No problem. Don't forget to transfer your ID off your lab coat, ok?" Grissom sighed. This was one obstacle out of the way, but there'd probably be more.

"Right, thanks. I'm infamous for that."

"I know." Smart, earnest, and usually wholly absorbed in her work, the young lab tech tended to be something of a scatterbrain about things not involving chemicals or instrumentation.

"Oh, and Annie? Try to look a little less like a lab rat, ok? Lab glasses are geeky enough in the lab," came a voice from the door. Greg was standing there with a grin, holding a file full of DNA results for Grissom. As usual, his loud shirt, visible above the collar of his lab coat, rebelled against the very notion of geekyness, while Annie reveled in it.

"I'll see what I can do," Annie replied, raising her eyebrow. With that she jogged back to the Tox lab. Ten minutes later, she returned, dictionary tucked under one arm, buttoning a flowered oxford over her lab t-shirt. She took her ID off her belt loop and clipped it to the shirt pocket. "Let's rock and roll."

* * *

Grissom, Warrick, Catherine and Annie were piled into a Tahoe on the way to the crime scene, where they would be met by Nick and Sara. 'Rock and roll' had turned out to be a surprisingly accurate term, as Warrick currently had control over the car radio, driver's privilege. "So, Grissom, what am I getting myself into here?" Annie asked.

"We're not sure exactly. We need you to help us find out. We've got two adults, one dead, one in surgery, and a very scared kid who's our only witness."

"And he speaks Russian?"

"Da."

"Otlichna. Ili nyet."

Grissom parked the Tahoe in the Tangiers lot. "Oh, good," he commented, "there's Nick and Sara."

"Hey guys," Sara called as they got out of the car. "How do you want us to play this, Grissom?"

"Sara, Annie; you go with Brass and talk to the kid; here's the tape recorder. Nick, I want you to get me any and all relevant security footage; hallways, stairwells, and elevators. Catherine, you and Vega go talk to the neighbors; see if anybody heard anything. Someone had to have called it in, and it couldn't have been the kid. Warrick; you're with me; we're processing the scene. Let's move."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Detective Brass walked up behind Sara and Annie. "So, ladies, how do we want to handle this?"

Annie jumped and spun around. "Oh—we're going to need a quiet room; I don't process speech well over background noise anyways, and that goes double for Russian."

"No problem," Sara replied, "I'm sure that can be arranged."

"I think it'll be easier if just I walk up to him; I don't want to intimidate him, he's probably scared enough as it is. I'll handle the formal introductions after we know his name."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Brass agreed. "Anything else you need? I'll see if we can't scare up some juice and cookies for the little guy; he's probably still dehydrated from the long flight, and I doubt he's eaten in a couple of hours."

"Sounds like a good idea. Where is he?"

"In a room off the lobby – we've got an officer and a social worker with him."

* * *

As Brass had said, Annie and Sara found two other adults waiting in the room when they arrived. "Annie, I don't know if you've met Officer Jeff Took, and Alex Wilson from Child Services. Guys, this is Annie Rose, one of the lab techs back at CSI; she's offered to give us a hand with translation."

"Pleased to meet you," Alex said, stepping over and shaking hands.

"Likewise," Annie nodded. "I'll go see about making our young friend's acquaintance." She walked up to the little boy, curled up in a corner of the couch, sobbing quietly. ~Hi. What's your name?~ She crouched down to his eye-level.

The child looked up, startled to hear someone speaking to him in his own language. ~My name is Paval Andreevich Kusnetzov.~

~You're called Pavlik, right?~ Annie smiled at the child's formality; she doubted he was ever actually called Paval unless Mama and Papa were _seriously_ annoyed.

~Yes.~

~My name is Anya. How old are you, Pavlik?~

~Seven.~ He seemed small for a seven year old, to an American's eyes at least, and his sandy brown hair was falling in his blue eyes.

~Great. Let's go. Come on, I have some people for you to meet – they're really nice.~ Annie took Pasha by the hand, and led him over to the group of adults standing by the table. "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Pavlik. He's seven years old, and he's had a bit of a rough night," she nodded. ~Pavlik, this is Alex, Officer Took, Detective Brass, and Sara, from the crime lab. They want to ask you some questions about what happened. All right?~ Annie stumbled slightly over the vocabulary. She hadn't needed the word for 'crime' since college discussions on _Crime and Punishment_, and declining it on the fly was tricky.

~All right.~ The boy climbed up into a chair by the door, and brightened at the sight of the apple juice and Oreos on the table. Brass set a cup of juice and some cookies in front of him.

"_Pavlik,_" Sara began, "_can you tell us about what happened tonight?_" Annie translated the question into Russian, grateful for the relatively simple grammar.

"_I was on the floor drawing a picture, and Mama and Papa were on the bed, talking. Suddenly, there was a loud crashing noise, like someone wanted to crash the door down. Papa yelled at me to hide, so I crawled under the bed._"

Annie was trying to keep up as the boy spoke, but like most Russians, he tended to speak quickly. She had no choice but to stop him for a second, or she was going to get lost. ~Slow down please, Pavlik. You speak Russian better than I do.~ Annie told him, as she paused to look something up in the dictionary.

"Izvenitye, Anya."

"Bcyo khorosho, Pavlik."

"_Then what happened, Pasha_," Brass asked gently, encouraging the child to continue.

"_I heard a gun, and somebody shouting. I'm not sure when he left. I stayed under the bed until the police came. They tried to talk to me, but I'm just learning English, and I couldn't understand them._" Pavlik had slowed down some, making things easier for Annie. She quickly flipped through the dictionary. She found what she was looking for—she had never before needed to know the Russian for 'gun.'

"_Do you know how many times the gun was shot?_"

"_Maybe seven or eight, but I was scared, and I wasn't counting._"

"_Did you see the person who did it?_"

"_He was wearing black pants, I think. But I was afraid to watch him._"

"_Did he say anything?_"

"_Something about America and communists, but I didn't understand most of the words he was using._"

"_Thank you. Now, I'm going to need to see if anything from the bad guy got on you, ok, Pavlik? It might help us find him._" Sara smiled at the boy, trying to reassure him that everything would be all right, even if she knew that it wouldn't.

The boy nodded slowly. Sara tape-lifted a few fibers from his clothes and snapped some pictures, but found no traces of GSR, and the ALS didn't reveal any blood. She took a DNA swab as well. Finally, she got fingerprints. Sara sighed. It was almost mechanical. At this point she could probably almost process someone in her sleep. Somehow, though, it was easier when she could speak to the person. Going through a translator wasn't the same; it lacked the personal feel of normal conversation. Almost like talking to a computer.

"_But won't my fingerprints be in the room?_" Annie checked the dictionary again. She had never needed the word for 'fingerprints' either.

"_Yes, and your Mama's and Papa's too. But, if we can figure out which ones belong to you three, any others might belong to the bad guy._"

"Anya, gdye Mama i Papa?"

Annie turned to the detective and the social worker. "Brass, Alex, what do we know about his parents? And how much of it am I allowed to tell him?"

Brass looked at Alex, who nodded – delaying the truth wouldn't soften it any, and dodging the question would only arouse his suspicions and make him more frightened.

"Dad just came out of surgery; he'll be fine, once he wakes up. Mom was dead at the scene," he said with a sigh.

~Papa is in the hospital; he'll be all right, when he wakes up.~

~A Mama?~

Annie sighed. There was no easy way to say this, but someone had to. Unfortunately, she did know the verb 'to die.' Ironically, it was one of the easier ones to conjugate. ~Pavlik, your Mama died.~

Brass looked on. He wished there were something he could do. But he knew there wasn't. All he could do was watch, and hand the child a Kleenex. Even if Pavlik could speak English, Brass would be powerless to say much that would comfort him. Pavlik Kusnetzov's life had changed forever.

Pavlik began to cry once more. Annie took him by the hand and led him over to the tacky floral-print sofa. More out of habit than anything else, she began singing quietly in Russian, an old folk song taught in college Russian classes. The child, physically and emotionally exhausted, was asleep within a couple of minutes.

"Now what?" Annie whispered, after hitting the stop button on the tape recorder.

"I'm going to go help Grissom and Warrick upstairs. It's only been about half an hour, they won't be near done yet."

"I'll go with you," Annie said. "I promise to look and not touch," she added quickly. "But if there's a note or something, it could contain valuable information, couldn't it?"

"Sounds good," Sara agreed.

"Good thinking," Alex agreed. "I'll page you if Pavlik and I need you again."

"What about you, Brass?" Sara asked.

"I'll go see how Nick is doing with the surveillance footage."

Annie and Sara began walking towards the elevator. "Why does he call you Anya?"

"Because that's how I introduced myself. Among other things, it's easier for him to pronounce. It's also just habit when I'm speaking Russian. I usually went by Anya in Moscow, and it's what I went by in college Russian classes."

"You've lived in Moscow? I thought you were American."

"I am – if I was Russian, I'd be a lot more fluent," she laughed. "I spent a year studying abroad in college."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Room 233, for all its fancy furnishings, was a mess. A pool of blood showed where Andrei Kusnetzov had been shot near the door; a second pool had collected under his wife's body where she had fallen. There were shell casings on the floor, and a bullet hole through the window, a crack forming around it like a spider's web. By the table lay a child's drawing of an airplane and a box of crayons, scattered where they had been knocked over in their owner's scramble for safety. The orange crayon had been crushed into the dark green carpet. "Oh man, this bastard meant business. Kid's lucky to have escaped this. Paramedics already leave with the dad?" Warrick asked.

"Yep, about an hour ago. The doctors say he's going to make it," Grissom responded.

"Mmm, looks like Mom wasn't so lucky. I count at least three entry wounds. We got names for these people?" Warrick knelt down to get a closer look at the body. She was pretty, with honey-colored wavy hair and impeccable make-up. Her green blouse was stained with blood, and her black slacks were somewhat rumpled.

"The room's registered to an Andrei Kusnetzov. We may know more when Sara and Annie finish talking to the son. The coroner should be here pretty soon." Grissom wondered what this family could have done to provoke this kind of rage; they had just checked in this afternoon. Then again, perhaps they hadn't done anything. Still, murder had to have motive, however obscure it may be. Grissom and his team hoped to find the "who" and the "how," but that was only half of the equation. Everything centered around the "why." Science couldn't answer that one.

Just then, the door opened. "Hi, guys."

"Hello, David," Grissom replied.

"It's been raining bullets in here," the coroner's assistant commented, observing the shell casings. "How many entry wounds do you count in our Jane Doe?"

"I make it three. One in the chest, one in the left shoulder, and one in the left temple. .22 caliber, maybe," Warrick replied.

"Looks about right. Go ahead and get any pictures you need, and I'll get her back to the morgue. I assume you want to process her there?"

"Right." Grissom began snapping photographs of the body, while Warrick took a closer look at the bullet wounds.

"Griss, get a picture of this, will you?" Warrick pointed at the hole in the temple. "Stellate tearing. This one was shot at close range."

Grissom finished taking pictures, and David wheeled her out on a gurney. As he was walking out, Sara and Annie walked in, the former carrying a bag full of evidence lifted from Pavlik's clothes, the latter carrying the tape recorder.

"Where's the kid?" Grissom asked.

"Sound asleep downstairs. Officer Took and Alex Wilson from social services are with him. His name's Pavlik. I can tell you that the father's name is Andrei Kusnetzov, but I'll need the passports to tell you the mother's name," Annie reported. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, just in case. She wasn't handling evidence, but it wouldn't make their job any easier if she accidentally left a print somewhere, and she had a habit of leaning on counters and tables.

"Why didn't you ask about the Mom when you asked about the Dad?" Warrick asked, shrugging his shoulders.

"I didn't ask about the Dad. He told me his full name, and I back-formed his father's first name from his patronymic. The question is, 'Where are the passports?'"

"That is indeed the question," Grissom echoed.

"Hmm…" Annie mused. "They'll be used to carrying them around all the time—Russian law." She eyed a lady's purse on the table and a man's sport coat on the back of the chair. "I bet they're over there."

"Let's find out," Sara replied, walking over and snapping pictures. She put on her gloves and checked the purse, and the inner pocket of the jacket. "Here's two – and, yep, there's the third. I assume that that says Russian Federation?"

"It does." Annie replied, looking over Sara's shoulder.

Sara flipped to the face page of the first passport. Her eyebrows knit in confusion. "I can't even read the transliterations. Too many consonants."

"Andrei Vladimirovich Kusnetzov. It's really easier to just read the Cyrillic."

"Well, that only works if you know Cyrillic," Sara replied, pointing at nothing as she flipped to the face page of the second passport.

"Point. Sofia Dmitrievna Kusnetzova—names are gendered in Russian, just like all other nouns. And, sure enough, Paval Andreevich Kusnetzov."

"Bag 'em," Grissom said.

"I've got a possible motive for you, too, Grissom," Sara said.

"Oh?"

"Pavlik said that the attacker was shouting something. He couldn't understand much of it, but he picked up a couple of cognates—America, and communists," Annie explained.

"Sounds like we might have a xenophobic killer on our hands," Grissom deduced.

"That or a fanatic McCarthyite stuck in the wrong century," Warrick added.

"One wonders if the Kusnetzovs are communist," Sara mused.

A glimmer in an open suitcase caught Annie's eye. "Based on those icons," she said, going over for a closer look, "I'm guessing not."

The group turned as the door opened. Nick came walking in with an armload of security tapes. "We're in luck, guys. This room is in view of the camera."

Just then, Grissom's cell rang. "Grissom." A pause. "Ok, good, I'll send Nick over with a translator. Thank you." He retuned the phone to his belt. "Nick, the dad is awake. You and Annie head on over there; see if Alex wants to take Pavlik with you. Collect whatever Andrei Kusnetzov was wearing, and head back to the lab. We'll catch up with you there."

"Is it all right if I grab Pavlik's shoes first? He wasn't wearing them." Annie glanced around. "There they are," she said, pointing towards the corner.

"Sure. Let me print them and run them under an ALS first," Grissom replied. He inked the soles of the tennis shoes and pressed them down on paper. "No blood," he said, turning off the ALS. "Take 'em."

"Come on," Annie said, picking up the shoes. "Let's go find Alex and see about waking up Pavlik."

Sara looked around as Nick and Annie left the room. "We've got a couple of hours' worth of work here."

"Yes, we do," Grissom replied. "Sara, Warrick, why don't you dust for prints? I'm going to photograph and bag evidence. Have we got samples of that blood yet?"

"Sure do," Warrick replied. "Gonna be a long night."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Annie and Nick walked towards the elevator. "Vot chyort! When you find whoever's responsible for this, I have a few things I'd like to say to him," Annie said, as Nick pressed the button for the first floor.

"What does that mean?" Nick asked, referring to the Russian phrase. "I'm assuming it wasn't overly polite, in which case, I fully agree with you."

"That would be telling, now wouldn't it?" Annie smirked.

"Aw, now you got me curious," Nick said with a big grin, idly leaning against the elevator wall.

"Oh, all right. The literal translation is 'there is the devil.' It's essentially the Russian equivalent of 'damn it.'" The elevator stopped, and Nick and Annie stepped out. "This way," she said, turning down the hall.

* * *

Nick and Annie stepped into the room, the door squeaking as it closed behind them. "Hey Jeff, hey Alex – long time, no see," Nick grinned. "Alex, the hospital called; Mr. Kusnetzov is awake. Annie and I were going to go and speak with him – what do you think about bringing Pavlik along?"

"Let's do it," Alex replied. "Pavlik needs his dad right now, and I expect his dad probably needs him too. And with his being a foreign national, the logistics of taking him into temporary Child Services custody get even messier than usual. But I'll come along, if you don't mind."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Nick assured her.

Annie walked up to the sleeping boy and put a hand on his shoulder. "Pavlik," she said quietly. The boy woke up, startled. ~Do you want to go see Papa?~

Pavlik looked up, sleep leaving his eyes in an instant. ~Can I?~

"Da." She smiled and handed the child his shoes. As he put them on, she turned back to Nick. "Nick, this is Pavlik Kusnetzov, I suggest you say 'privyet.' Pavlik, eto Nick."

"Privyet, Nick." Pavlik pronounced the "i" as a long "e."

"Privyet, Pavlik." Nick smiled at the little boy. He was remarkably cute and his smile—complete with a gap from a recently lost baby tooth—was endearing. Nick turned to Annie. "Did I pronounce that right?"

"More or less, yeah." She turned to Pavlik. ~Let's go.~ The four of them headed out to the parking lot, Pavlik clinging to Annie's wrist as Nick fished the keys to the Tahoe out of his back pocket and unlocked the doors.

Nodding to Alex to take the front seat, Annie helped Pavlik into the backseat and made sure his seatbelt was fastened before walking around the back bumper and climbing in behind Nick. ~It isn't far, Pavlik~

Country music began playing as Nick turned the key in the ignition. He followed the road almost mechanically, focus on the traffic and the stoplights; he had driven this road countless times before, and knew the route in his sleep.

Pavlik blinked; country music wasn't generally played much in Russia. He stared out the window, fascinated by all the bright lights, as Vegas spelled out its wonders in neon and argon. Moscow certainly had streets with similar lights, even similar gaudy casinos, but the foreign language of the signs somehow made everything more exotic.

* * *

After ten minutes, Nick pulled into the parking lot of Desert Palm Hospital. Away from the hypnotic bright lights, Pavlik clung to Annie's wrist once more as they walked up to the entrance.

Once inside, Nick walked up to the reception desk and showed his ID. "I'm Nick Stokes from the crime lab; we're here to see Mr. Kusnetzov."

"Sure, room 203," the receptionist replied, pointing towards the elevator. "Second door to your left as you get off the elevator."

"Thank you." He turned back to Alex, Annie and Pavlik. "C'mon guys. This way." They headed over to the elevator, built extra large to accommodate gurneys.

Pavlik's eyes widened. Most Russian elevators were small and dark; this one was not only huge, but well-lit.

"Culture shock," Annie remarked to Nick and Alex after pressing the button, seeing Pavlik's wide eyes. "It's actually much worse coming here than going there."

"Really?" Nick asked, just as the elevator stopped.

"Yep."

"Second door, she said?" Alex asked as the elevator stopped and the doors hissed open.

"Yeah, there's Brass," Nick said, pointing to the bench outside room 203. "He's had a busy night tonight." Nick waved at the detective. "What's the news?"

Brass got up and walked over, wrinkling his nose slightly. He hated the disinfectant smell of hospitals. "Relatively good, under the circumstances. One bullet to the chest; missed the heart and lungs, though you wouldn't have guessed from the amount it bled. Went through a couple of units of blood, but he's stable. Staff says it'll be fine for Pavlik to stay with his dad for tonight; they'll put a cot on the floor for him. Interviewing him can wait till tomorrow."

"High time we got some good news tonight," Annie remarked. "Let's go." She knocked on the door of room 203, turned on the tape recorder, and walked in. "Zdravstsvuitye, Andrei Vladimirovich," she said. ~My name is Anne Rose. This is Detective Brass, Nick Stokes from the crime lab, and Alex Wilson with Child Services. I think you already know Pavlik.~ She noticed a Russian-English dictionary sitting on a table near the bed. 'Good,' she thought. 'That should be enough for them to ask for water or juice or something if they want it once I leave.'

"Papa!" Pavlik ran up to the bed.

His father turned to him, his brown hair sweaty as if he had been worrying, even panicking. ~Pavlik, my little Pavlik. I'm very glad to see you.~ He wiped a tear from his eye as he took his son by the hand, flinching as the IV needle in his arm shifted slightly. He looked up at the three adults standing by the door. ~And my wife? How is she?~

Pavlik's smile vanished as he was reminded of his mother.

Annie sighed. For the second time tonight, she would have to be the bearer of bad news. ~She's dead.~

~No, Sonya, not you.~ The man began crying along with his child. He crossed himself, confirming Annie's hunch that he was probably a practicing Orthodox. Annie thought she caught the words "_God have mercy_," but they were too quiet for her to be sure.

Nick sighed. It never got any easier, but somehow it was worse this time, when he was powerless to say anything. He walked across the sterile white room and picked up a box of Kleenex, moving it closer to Mr. Kusnetzov and Pavlik. "Here," he said, sniffling ever so slightly. "You might need these." He knew his words would not be understood, but it wasn't the words that were important.

The man on the bed blew his nose and looked up. ~I know you want to ask me some questions, but, please, not right now.~ His eyes, pleading, were rimmed with tears as he looked at the three Americans by the doorway.

Annie blinked back tears herself. "Nyet, ne seychas. Zavtra." She turned off the tape recorder. "Come on, guys, let's let them be for the night."

The man looked up from his child. "Spacibo."

"Pozhalusta." Annie left, closing the door quietly behind her, leaving father and son to cry the night through. She checked her watch. Four o'clock already. "Time flies. Let's head back to the lab."

"Soon as I get Mr. Kusnetzov's clothes and that bullet," Nick replied.

Alex nodded. "I'm going to stay here for the time being."

"Thanks, Alex," Brass nodded. "I'm gonna head on out of here," he said. "My pager just went off—again."

"All right, see you around," Nick said. "Come on, Annie. They should be able to get us the evidence at the reception desk." Annie followed the CSI to the elevator and back to the desk. They had the clothes and the bullet waiting for them. Nick and Annie headed out to the parking lot, and Nick fired up the Tahoe. "Speaking of culture shock, you look like you're feeling some yourself." He clicked off the radio.

"Yeah," Annie replied. "You could say that." She sighed. "Does it ever get any easier?"

"No, it doesn't. But you get used to it after a while." Nick kept his eyes on the road as he drove back to CSI. "I've gotta say, though, it's even harder when you can't speak to them directly. There isn't really anything you can say that'll help, but it's nice to preserve the illusion." It started raining—hard. He reached across the steering wheel and turned on the windshield wipers, as water cascaded down the glass.

The rain seemed to be daring Annie to cry. She blinked back tears, and rubbed her eyes. "I just keep realizing that that could be so many people I know—on both sides of the Atlantic."

"Yeah, it could—but it's not. As horrible as it sounds, you gotta remember that it's not. Or else you just fall apart."

"I can't seem to keep the two separate. Guess that's why you're out here, and I'm in the lab." Annie rubbed her eyes again.

"That part does get easier eventually. There are still cases that get you every once in a while, though." Nick blinked and thought of his personal case-demon, Kristy. She _had_ turned out to be the one he knew. He wasn't sure he'd ever really forgive himself. He pulled into the CSI garage. "If you need to talk, come find me." He popped the trunk.

Annie helped Nick carry in the sealed bags of evidence. "Nick..," she said, looking up. "Thanks."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Back at the lab, there was work to be done. "Greg," Grissom said, pulling several vials of blood from an evidence bag, "here are samples from the bloodstains found at the scene and exemplars from each of the Kusnetzovs. Match 'em up, please. Annie, same as above; I need a full tox panel."

"You got it." The two lab rats headed down the hall. Annie was glad to be back in her white coat and lab glasses. Somehow, things seemed safer inside the lab; she wasn't sure about her brief foray into the real world. But there was no time to think about that now.

"Nick," Grissom continued, "get the bullets to Bobby and the security tapes to Archie. Sara, Warrick; you're processing the evidence found at the scene. Catherine, care to join me for the autopsy?"

"Certainly." As Nick walked over to the Ballistics lab and Sara and Warrick headed towards the evidence room, Catherine and Grissom made their way to the Morgue. They put on their gloves, and began processing Sofia Kusnetzova's body.

"How'd it go with the neighbors?" Grissom asked.

"Woman in 235, next door to our vics, heard shouting and screaming; called 911. No one else heard anything." Catherine finished checking the dead woman's pockets as Grissom inked her fingers for prints. "Nothing in her pockets but a handkerchief and a Tangiers key card. Most of her things were probably in her purse."

Grissom carefully pressed her fingers down on a card. "Probably. I'm surprised the people in 231 didn't hear anything."

"They weren't in. They were down in the casino, playing Blackjack." Catherine sighed as she tape-lifted a fiber from the woman's blouse. "I don't see why anyone would want to come after this family. They just got into Vegas today."

Grissom photographed the bullet wounds. "Sometimes hate doesn't need a reason. Did that neighbor know what the attacker was shouting? Pavlik said there was something about America and communists."

"No, she couldn't remember anything specific. She hadn't realized the family was Russian and assumed it was domestic violence. I believe her exact words were 'those damn filthy Mexicans,'" Catherine said, scowling in disgust at the racial epithet as she carefully slid the wedding ring off the woman's right finger and slipped it into an evidence bag.

The door opened and Dr. Robbins walked into the quiet of the morgue, where even a whispered conversation seemed to echo. "Are you ready for me yet? David said you were going to process her here."

"Just about ready for you, Doc," Grissom replied. The CSIs stepped aside.

* * *

In the AV lab, Nick was bent over a computer monitor with Archie, reviewing the surveillance footage from the Tangiers hallway. "What time did it happen?" Archie asked.

"Sometime around 12:30."

Archie checked the time stamp and fast-forwarded the tape. "There," he said, slowing down the tape as a figure appeared and started banging on the door. He checked the time stamp again. 12:24.

"Damn it!" Nick exclaimed. "Bastard's wearing a mask."

"Unfortunately. His leg is blocking the gun from the view of the camera, so I can't zoom in to find out what make and model it is – you'll need Bobby for that. I'll see if I can't at least get you an approximate height to work with," Archie offered. He froze the frame as the killer stepped through the doorway, carrying a handgun. "Using the door frame as a reference, and realizing that he's slightly stooped, I'd say he's somewhere between 6'0" and 6'3". I'll work on figuring out what he used to bust in the door."

"Thanks, Archie. I'll go clue in Sara and Warrick."

Sara and Warrick sat on either side of the lit table in the evidence room, going through the evidence bags. "Hey, that must be Pavlik's drawing; he was working on a picture when the killer started trying to bust the door in," Sara said, as Warrick took out a drawing of an Aeroflot plane, the control tower in the background only half-colored. "Pretty good, for a seven year old."

"Hmm…there's a shoe-print on it," Warrick commented, squinting slightly at the dent in the paper. "Pass me an electrostatic lift kit, and I'll see if I can't lift it."

Sara walked over to the shelf and grabbed a shoeprint kit and passed it to Warrick. "Here you go."

"Thanks." Warrick carefully lifted the print from the drawing. "None of the vics were wearing shoes, so I'd say there's good chance that this was left by our killer."

"Took the words right out of my mouth. Hmm…waffle soles. Looks like a running shoe." Sara peered at the print.

"Yeah, I'd guess somewhere around a size 12—pretty big feet."

"I'll see what the database has to say." Sara picked up the print and carried it over to the scanner. She tapped at the keyboard, and the scanner whirred on, its green light casting an eerie glow over Sara's face. She uploaded the image, and the database began searching for a match.

The door opened and Nick walked in. "Killer was on the security footage, but the rat was wearing a mask. Archie says he's in the 6'0"-6'3" range, though."

"Makes sense," Warrick replied, "his shoes are probably around a size 12; he wouldn't be likely to be much shorter than that, though anything is possible."

"And it probably _is_ a he," Sara added. "There aren't many women that big." Just then, the computer beeped. Sara walked over and checked the monitor. "New Balance 780, size 12.5. Treads aren't worn down yet, so they're probably pretty new."

"We better go find Grissom."

"Aren't he and Catherine still in autopsy?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, I think so," Sara answered. "Let's go."

* * *

In the morgue, Doc Robbins had just finished stitching up the body. "Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, .22 caliber, though the chest wound would have proven fatal, given a few minutes. The shoulder wound wasn't life-threatening. I'll get the recovered bullets to Bobby Dawson."

"Three bullets…" Grissom commented. "The husband was only shot once."

"Hmm…" Catherine thought aloud, eyebrows knit. "Chest, shoulder, temple…temple's closest range…it looks like she was turning as she fell, maybe to get closer to Pavlik."

"He kept shooting until she fell," Grissom surmised. "The husband probably fell right away."

"Sounds like you're looking for a semi-automatic," Doc Robbins interjected. "Those shots must have been fired fast."

The door to the morgue opened and the rest of the team entered. "Hey, Griss," Nick said. "We've got some info on our killer."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, somewhere around 6'2", with size 12.5 feet."

"Pretty big guy," Catherine mused.

At that moment, something beeped, prompting the CSIs to examine their pagers. It turned out to be Grissom's. "Greg has our DNA results."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Grissom cringed as he walked into the DNA lab, where punk rock was blaring. "Greg." No answer. He walked over to the CD player, and turned it off.

The figure bent over the lab bench jumped and turned around. "Why'd you do that?"

"You didn't answer," Grissom replied. "I assume the page from Dmitri Mendeleyev means that you have my DNA results?" He raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Indeed it does. The father of the periodic table, and where would we be without that? Also happened to be Russian." Greg leaned idly against the lab bench, one elbow propped on the bench top.

"I'm well aware, Greg. Now how about my DNA?"

Greg reached over and grabbed several papers from the printer, handing them to his supervisor. "None of these samples are a match to Pasha Kusnetzov, which isn't surprising, 'cuz you said he wasn't hurt. Bloodstain 'A' is a match to Mr. Kusnetzov; bloodstain 'B' is a match to Mrs. Kusnetzov, and bloodstain 'C' is a match to—none of the above. I've got it running through CODIS now."

"Bloodstain 'C'—that's the one we found on the doorframe in the room."

"Sounds like your killer may have busted his knuckles when he busted the door."

"It's a possibility. Do you have the Tox results?"

"You'll have to talk to Annie for that. She said she was almost done with them though, if you wanna go check."

"Thanks, I'll do that. Oh, and Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Turn your music down."

* * *

In the Toxicology lab, classical music played softly in the background as the printer churned away, producing mass spec results, and Annie sat hunched over in front of the computer, eyelids sagging. Her purple pen tapped a complicated rhythm on the desk as she scrolled through the window on the screen.

"Johann Sebastian Bach – Sheep May Safely Graze," Grissom said, correctly naming the tune as he stepped into the Tox Lab.

Annie looked up, startled, and rubbed her eyes under her lab glasses. "Oh—Grissom. I was just about to page you. Tox results just finished printing."

"Excellent," he replied, leaning forward and peering over her shoulder, fingers resting on the edge of the desk. "What are they?"

"Samples from all three of the Kusnetzovs contained an over the counter melatonin supplement; I expect they were taking it for jetlag. The stuff works wonders; I keep it around, myself. I suggest you look around for an airport or Vegas-area receipt; I've never seen the stuff in Russia, not even at the airport. I'm actually a little surprised the Kusnetzovs knew about it. In addition, samples from Andrei Vladimirovich and Sofia Dmitrovna contained ethanol."

"How much?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not a lot. Levels are indicative of about a drink a piece. Didn't find anything else, not even nicotine or aspirin. The sample from bloodstain 'C', however, is another matter."

"Oh?" Grissom perked up.

"Yeah, I found azithromyacin, aspirin and atorvastatin calcium, better known as Lipitor."

"Lipitor—that's a cholesterol lowering drug. Sounds like our killer has high cholesterol and possibly high blood pressure as well."

Annie attempted to stifle a yawn without much success. "And a recent bacterial infection – azithromyacin is an antibiotic. Broad spectrum, it's powerful stuff. Oh, and I have something else for you as well." She handed him a teal Post-it note with a number scrawled on it in purple ink. "Phone number for the Russian consulate in San Francisco. There'll be some logistics to take care of."

Grissom nodded. "Yes, there will. Thank you." Indeed, there would be logistics. Logistics was such a tidy word for it, conveying nothing of the headache involved. The body would need to be transported back to Russia after it was released. There was a possibility of visa problems, depending on how long the Kusnetzovs' visas had originally been issued for. And those were only the obvious issues, there may be many more tangled in the miles (or was that kilometers) of red tape stretched across two continents. Grissom shuddered, knowing all too well how many problems lay entangled in red tape in any bureaucracy. He noticed as Annie yawned again, still hunched over her desk. "Tired?"

"'Drained' might be a better word."

"I'm guessing this isn't just because it's your first night on Graveyard?"

Annie sighed. "Well, that isn't helping, but, no."

"You doing okay?" Grissom asked, concerned. There wasn't really a gentle way of introducing people to field work; but tonight had been even rougher than usual. In some ways, blood and gore were easier to deal with than the grieving families left behind. The aftermath of a 9mm to a skull at close range might make you sick, but it was the family members who tugged at your heartstrings and leaned on you for support. The dead faded, the living did not.

"Yeah, more or less." It wasn't entirely true, but she was trying to convince herself that it was.

"You need a break. Why don't you go get something to drink?" Grissom suggested. 'Preferably something with caffeine,' he thought to himself. The exhausted lab tech was clearly about to fall asleep where she sat.

"Yeah, thanks, I'll do that."

"And come find me if you need to talk. Thank you for all your help tonight."

"No problem." As Grissom turned to return to his office, Annie stood up, stretched, and walked down the hall to the break room. She hung her lab coat over the back of a chair, reached up to the cabinet for a mug, and put a kettle on for tea. Then she went and collapsed on the couch while she waited for the water to boil.

Fifteen minutes later, Annie was woken up by the whistling of the kettle. She squinted at her wrist watch—6:15. She Frankenstein-lurched over to the counter and turned off the stove. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Greg leaning against the doorway.

"Hey, **I'm** a dipole, **you're** a dipole…got a moment?"

Annie turned around, confused, as Greg settled himself at the table with a soda from the fridge. Then she remembered. "You've been reading the back of my shirt, haven't you?"

"Of course. Care to go back to the lab and form a covalent bond?"

Annie laughed as she poured steaming water from the kettle into her mug and added a couple of tea bags. "But Greg, I've **seen** the size of **your** GCMS."

Greg pretended to look disappointed for a moment. "Anyways," he laughed, "cool shirt—Top Ten Chemistry Pickup Lines. Where'd you find that? The sexithiophene molecule is a nice touch."

"Department t-shirt from college. Junior year, as I recall." Annie sat down across the table from Greg. She spooned some honey into her tea, the amber swirls drifting though her mug.

Greg watched as Annie removed the two teabags from the mug, and set them on a napkin. "You sure you've got enough caffeine in that?" he asked, amused.

Annie raised an eyebrow. "No." Her eyes widened as she sipped her tea. This was **strong**, even for her. But when you needed the caffeine, you swallowed your pride…and your tea.

"I can't believe you got to go out in the field. I've always kind of wondered what field work would be like."

"I think I'll stick to the lab. I'm glad I was able to help tonight, but I don't think I could deal with the stress long term."

"Limited tolerance for dead bodies?" Greg grinned.

"Never even saw the body. I just had to tell a man that his wife is dead, and a little boy that he'd never see his mother again." Annie sighed and sipped her tea, already feeling the caffeine beginning to make its way into her system. "I'm just not a 'people' person. Society makes little sense to me. You do really well with people; I don't. I like people, but I find it stressful to deal with emotional situations—and it doesn't get much more emotional than that."

"Takes all kinds to make a world."

"Yep, and, for better or for worse, I'm a lab rat." She squinted, trying to force her eyes to focus. That was always the first thing to go when she was tired, and one of the few things caffeine didn't help.

"Nothing wrong with that," Greg laughed. "Say, how do you see in the lab?" he asked, noticing her squint. "You were wearing glasses when you came back from the field, and contacts are against lab policy."

"Here," she replied, passing him her lab glasses.

Greg put them on. "Ah, prescription lenses. These are pretty strong."

"Around a +3.00. They were a godsend in college. The regular ones in the bookstore didn't fit over real glasses. And goggles suck."

"No arguments here. Got any big plans for today?"

"I have one more sample to run before the end of shift, and then I'm going to go home, feed the cat, and sleep for about eight hours. Anything which disturbs me can expect great pain."

"You expect to sleep after **that**?" Greg asked incredulously, pointing at her now half-empty mug.

"Oh, yes. This is just enough caffeine to keep me from falling asleep at the computer." Annie finished off the tea. "Speaking of which, I better get back to the lab if I want to get that sample run before I leave. See ya." She carried the mug over to the sink and washed it out—that much tea would stain like crazy if it were allowed to sit for a while. Then she set the mug in the drying rack.

"Yeah, I've got a couple to run myself. A lab tech's work is never done." Greg absently tossed his soda can in the recycling bin as he headed out the door, back to the DNA lab.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

At quarter till eight, Annie set a folder full of tox results for the Johnson case on Nick's desk, knowing that it could be a while before he got to them—the Kusnetzov case had everyone busy. On her way back to the lab, she spied a face she didn't recognize in the lobby. Approaching the young woman, Annie observed the WLVU tote bag hanging from one shoulder. "Hello," she said uncertainly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Oh, hi. My name is Molly Boardsman," she said, looking up at Annie from her height of 5'2". "I'm a professor in the Russian Department over at WLVU. I hear you guys needed a Russian translator?" Her glasses were sliding halfway down the bridge of her freckle-covered nose, and her cheery manner showed quite clearly that, unlike the lab tech, she was just beginning her day rather than waiting to end it. She looked awfully young to be a full professor, Annie thought; she probably didn't have tenure yet.

"Oh, am I glad to see you. I'm Anne Rose, one of the lab techs. I've been filling in for the night, but I'm used to speaking, not translating – and I haven't done much of even that in several years."

"Ouch, that's rough."

"Yeah, just a bit." She glanced at her watch. "Dr. Grissom should be in his office; I could show you back there if you'd like."

"That'd be great, thanks."

"No problem." The two women turned and headed down the hallway.

Annie knocked quietly on the door to Grissom's office. No answer. She tried again, slightly louder this time.

"Come in," the entomologist answered, attempting to stifle a yawn—even after all these years, double shifts were rough. Grissom wanted to sleep for an hour or so, but that wasn't really an option at the moment. Instead, he was sitting at his desk, watching his tarantula as he looked over lab results from the Kusnetzov case. He looked up as the two women entered his sanctum.

Annie hated making introductions, but it looked as though the task was going to fall to her this time. "Professor Boardsman, this is Dr. Gil Grissom. Dr. Grissom, this is Professor Molly Boardsman."

"Pleased to meet you," Molly said, extending a hand. She was trying very hard not to look at the various bottled specimens in the room, or the tarantula either, for that matter.

"Likewise." Grissom reached over the desk to shake hands with the professor. Turning to Annie, he said, "Thanks again for all your help tonight, Annie. You go home and get some sleep. You need it."

"Will do. See you later." Annie turned and headed over to the locker room.

Grissom turned back to the professor seated on the other side of his desk. "Thank you for coming out here this morning, Professor Boardsman."

"Glad I can help," she replied, pushing a strand of flaming red hair out of her face and tucking it under her kerchief. "And, please, call me Molly. What's happened?"

Grissom briefed her on the events of the previous evening. "We'll need to go by the hospital later this morning to talk with Mr. Kusnetzov," he added after he'd finished. "But I'd like to give him and Pavlik a little bit more time to sleep if they can; they had a long night last night, and they're probably still jetlagged." He pulled the tape recorder out of his desk drawer. "Meanwhile, Annie's asked if you could listen to the tape of last night's interviews to make sure she didn't mistranslate anything."

"Sure." Molly reached over, rewound the tape, and pressed "play." An hour later, she stopped the tape. "Well, she's a touch rusty around the edges," she said with a smile, "and she was keeping the vocabulary as simple as possible. But I don't see any glaring problems; mostly, it seems to be problems with gender and pronunciation, not declension or aspect. Under other circumstances, Pavlik probably would have found it wildly funny. You won't have any problems with this in court."

"Annie will be happy to hear that," Grissom replied. "Would you like a cup of coffee before we head over to Desert Palm?"

"That'd be great." She followed Grissom back to the breakroom in search of the coffee pot.

* * *

Halfway across town, Annie unlocked the door to her apartment. "Mozart," she called, "I'm home." She whistled and a grey striped tabby sauntered around the corner and rubbed against her leg. Annie tossed her backpack down in the corner and scooped up the cat, scratching him behind the ears. She walked into the kitchen, set down the cat, and poured some dry food into a ceramic bowl on the floor. Then she walked back to her bedroom, slapping at the alarm clock on the way in. Not even bothering to change out of her lab clothes, she collapsed on the bed. She fell into a sound sleep within a few minutes, Mozart purring on her back. Had she looked out her window, however, she would have seen Grissom's Tahoe heading for the hospital.

* * *

Grissom parked the CSI Tahoe in the hospital lot, where he and Molly were met by Detective O'Riley. O'Riley flashed his badge at the receptionist at the desk, and they headed on up to the second floor. Grissom very nearly bumped into a nurse on his way out of room 203. "How are they?" Grissom asked.

"A bit shaken up, but stable," the nurse replied. "Beyond that, I can't tell you much. Communication by dictionary is highly overrated."

"I may be able to help you with that later," Molly offered.

"That'd be really helpful. But I won't keep you for now. You can go on in."

"Thanks," O'Riley replied. He knocked quietly on the door.

"Prikhoditye." (Come in.)

After the necessary introductions, the three Americans pulled up chairs beside the bed. Molly had brought along a portable DVD player and a popular Russian cartoon for Pavlik, who curled up in the corner with headphones, quietly singing along with the theme song.

~His favorite,~ Andrei Vladimirovich observed with a small smile. ~How did you know?~

~Just a guess – Cheburashka is my students' favorite too,~ Molly grinned. "_I'm very sorry about what's happened, Andrei Vladimirovich_." she translated Grissom's condolences.

The Russian waved the words aside. "_Please, just find out who did this to Sonya._"

"_We hope to do that_," O'Riley replied. "_Can you tell us what brought you to Las Vegas?_"

"_Sonya is—was—a biochemist. She was coming for a conference at UNLV, and we decided to make a family vacation out of it, let Pavlik see America. He's been talking about it for months._"

Grissom sighed. Such a tragedy. He made a mental note to check with university staff and find out the specific topic of the conference.

"_How well known was it at the hotel that your wife was a biochemist?_" O'Riley asked. "_Did she talk about it at all?_"

"_No. We had just gotten in yesterday afternoon. We had barely spoken to anyone._"

"_Do any of you speak English?_"

"_I don't, and Pavlik is just beginning to learn it; he isn't conversational yet. But Sonya spoke it quite well._" The man reached for a Kleenex to wipe his eyes.

"_Did she have a Russian accent at all?_" Grissom asked, curious. Someone had certainly known that this family was Russian.

"_Yes._" Andrei Vladimirovich nodded. "_Still, she had excellent grammar and a fairly large vocabulary._"

"_Tell me about what happened yesterday, from the time your plane landed at McCarran International,_" O'Riley requested.

"_We headed for Passport Control and Customs. We got hassled a little bit about our Russian passports, but they apologized as soon as they saw our visas. Apparently, someone had tried to come through from Petersburg earlier that day without a visa._" He paused and picked up the water glass from the table next to the bed, taking a sip. "_We took a taxi to our hotel, and Sonya checked us in. Then we took our luggage upstairs and lay down for an hour or so before we went out sightseeing. We went and walked along the Strip for a couple of hours, had some ice cream. We came back and had dinner at the hotel around 8:00._"

"_Was the food good?_" Grissom asked, trying to be friendly.

"_It was excellent. After dinner we went up to our room. I read Pavlik a chapter from __Lord of the Rings__. We're working on the first book at the moment. Around 10:30, Sonya and I thought we'd have some champagne._"

"_How much?_" O'Riley asked.

"_Just one glass each. We ordered some sparkling grape juice for Pavlik as well. He was thrilled; it made him feel like a grown-up._ _Then he pulled his crayons out of his backpack to draw a picture of an airplane while Sonya and I talked on the bed. He's fascinated by airplanes, cars, trains…that sort of thing._"

"_I was too, at his age,_" O'Riley said, smiling. "_Then what happened?_"

"_It was getting late here, but we were jetlagged, running on Moscow time. Pavlik wasn't quite ready for bed yet, so we told him he could stay up for another half an hour._"

"_What time was this?_"

"_About midnight. I was just about to tell Pavlik to go to bed, when someone started banging on the door—not knocking, trying to break in. It sounded like he was banging on the door with a brick or a rock. I told Pavlik to hide. I guess he did, but I'm not sure where. Suddenly there was a masked man standing there with a gun aimed at me. The next thing I knew, I was here._"

"_Out of curiosity,_" Grissom asked, "_Were any of you taking any medicines or supplements?_"

"_We were all taking melatonin. Sonya had heard from a colleague that it helps with jetlag, so we bought some at the hotel._"

"_Did the attacker say anything?_" O'Riley asked.

"_He was shouting something about America and communists. It sounded like he was accusing us of being communist._"

"_Pardon my asking, but…are you?_" O'Riley asked, smiling apologetically.

Andrei Vladimirovich shook his head sadly. "_No, never. We hated the old system. I'm grateful that Pavlik is too young to have known it._"

Grissom sighed. This seemed to be a crime with no motive. But his scientific mind rebelled at that notion. There **had** to be a motive somewhere. Didn't there? Before he could ponder the subject further, his thoughts were interrupted. "_Dr. Grissom, I have a request, if I may?_"

"_I'll be happy to help in any way I can._"

"_Did you find our Bible or our icons in our room?_"

"_Yes. But at the moment, everything found in your room is evidence. I'll try to rush processing on those for you, though._"

"_Thank you. Will we be able to get Sonya back to Russia?_"

"_I think so. We're going to give the consulate a call sometime today._ _By the way, before we go, I'm going to need your fingerprints._" He pulled a fingerprint card and an inkpad out of his jacket pocket.

"_Not a problem,_" Andrei Vladimirovich responded, as Grissom printed the man's fingers. "_Thank you. For everything._"

"_We'll let you rest for now,_" O'Riley said. "_If we have any more questions later, we'll let you know._"

The Americans turned and left the room. Grissom checked his watch. Lunchtime. His shift had theoretically ended four hours ago. "Anyone care to grab some lunch before we head back?"

"Sure," Molly and O'Riley chorused.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 **

Brass double-checked the Post-it note Grissom had given him and dialed. Computerized Kalinka music played in the background as he waited for someone to pick up the phone. Then he heard a clicking noise. "Zdravstvuitye."

"Um, hello," Brass replied uncertainly, hoping that the man spoke English. He wondered briefly if he shouldn't have asked that translator to help him with this.

"Hello," the man on the other end of the line replied pleasantly. "This is the Russian Consulate in San Francisco, Ivan Petrovich speaking. How may I assist you?"

"Hello. I'm Captain Jim Brass; I'm a homicide detective in Las Vegas, Nevada. I'm afraid a Russian family staying here was attacked in their hotel room last night."

Ivan Petrovich sighed. "If you are with homicide, I assume somebody must have died. How many?"

"One. The wife, Sofia Kusnetzova, is dead. Andrei Kusnetzov was shot, but survived; their child was unharmed."

Ivan Petrovich sighed again, heavily. "We will fly someone out there first thing tomorrow morning. If you give me a fax number, I will send you the flight information as soon as we have it."

"Thank you." Brass gave him the fax number for the Las Vegas Police Department and, after exchanging various polite niceties, hung up the phone. Time to call it a night (at 10:00 in the morning, no less) and head home. Come midnight, he'd be back to do it all over again.

* * *

Eight hours later, Annie's alarm went off. She resisted the temptation to abuse the snooze button and stumbled into the kitchen. She fed the cat, and made herself a cheese omelet and a cup of tea. After breakfast she went to make "lunch" to take to work. She was about to pull out the peanut butter, but changed her mind mid-reach. Instead, she took out a jar of bullion cubes. Raiding the fridge for vegetables, she set about making a pot of borscht. As the soup simmered, Annie slipped a DVD into the XBox's drive, and settled down to watch, Mozart asleep on top of the monitor. After last night, she could use some comedy.

* * *

Several hours later, it was nearly midnight, and the graveyard shift was beginning again at CSI Headquarters. "You look almost awake," Greg teased, as Annie hung her backpack in her locker. The lab techs were running slightly early; the rest of the nightshift didn't seem to be here yet.

"A little sleep does wonders," she replied. "I need to put this in the breakroom fridge," she said, pulling a Tupperware container out of her backpack. "Want to come along?"

"Ok." The two lab rats walked down the hallway to the breakroom.

Annie set the container on a shelf in the fridge and pulled out a 16 oz bottle of orange juice. "Want one?" she asked, turning to Greg and waving the bottle slightly.

"Sure." As they sat down with their juice, Sara, Warrick, and Nick wandered into the breakroom in search of coffee.

Warrick looked critically at the lukewarm sludge in the pot. "Better bust out the creamer, if we want this mess to be drinkable. Stuff's probably been sitting all day." He raised his eyebrows.

Sara went to the fridge for a carton of milk. She grimaced. "Tell me Grissom hasn't been leaving experiments in the breakroom fridge again." She pointed at the third shelf.

Annie glanced over. She hadn't noticed anything when she had had the fridge open a few minutes earlier. "Oh, that," she laughed, following Sara's finger. "That's mine. It's edible, I promise."

"What is it?" Nick asked.

"Borscht."

"You mean, like, beet soup?"

"Yeah. Guess I missed my hostmom's cooking.."

"Is that recipe vegetarian, by any chance?" Sara asked, first impressions of the soup's appearance fleeting from her mind at the prospect of vegetarian recipes. "I love beets."

"That batch isn't, but it can be. I can get you a recipe, if you like."

"Great, thanks," Sara replied, as she passed Warrick a half-gallon jug of milk. Warrick poured out three cups of what was attempting to pass itself off as coffee, to which the CSIs added milk and sugar in an effort to make it drinkable. It wasn't overly successful, as Nick discovered when he took the first sip, eyes widening slightly.

"Chug it, Nicky, chug it!" came a voice from the door. The team turned to find Catherine standing there, grinning, with a fast-food coffee cup in her hand.

The former frat-boy shrugged his shoulders. "Probably work as well as anything else," Nick said, before draining the remainder of his cup in one gulp. Sara and Warrick followed his example, while Catherine made a fresh pot of coffee.

"Any coffee?" Grissom asked a few minutes later, walking into the now crowded breakroom.

"There will be in a few minutes," Catherine replied, pointing at the now dripping coffee pot. "Ecklie's slop wasn't worth drinking."

"Never is," Grissom shrugged.

"What's the plan for tonight, Grissom?" Nick asked.

"It's going to be busy. Greg, I just left a couple of baseball caps we found in the room on your counter. See if they belong to any of the Kusnetzovs, please."

"Sure thing," Greg replied, knocking back the last of his juice and tossing the bottle at the recycling bin on his way out.

"Sara, Warrick, you're processing the evidence from the hotel. See if you can get the icons and the Bible cleared tonight. Annie, do you have any samples that need to be run tonight?"

"Ecklie's got some for me, yeah."

"Ok. You're on standby though, if any unknown substances turn up in the evidence. Run 'em and get an identification."

"No problem. You guys know where to find me." Annie left the room and headed towards Toxicology.

"Nick, you're with Archie. See what you can get from the security footage; this guy had to have come from somewhere," Grissom continued. "Catherine, get the fingerprints from the scene into AFIS. CODIS didn't come up with anything, maybe AFIS will. I need to catch up with Brass." A beeping noise caused everyone to dive for their pagers. It turned out to be Nick's.

"Bobby," Nick said, checking the digital readout. "I expect he's identified the gun."

"Check it out, Nick, and get back to me," Grissom responded. He turned and walked back to his office. The phone began ringing just as he reached the door. He sprinted over to his desk and picked up the receiver. "Grissom."

"Hey, Gil," the voice on the other end replied.

"Oh, Jim…I was just about to call you. Did you get in touch with the consulate?"

"Yeah, they'll have someone out here first thing in the morning." Brass checked the fax printout on his desk. "United flight 789, arrives at 7:00 am, gate C4."

"Excellent. I checked with the Public Relations staff at UNLV. The biochem conference is on enzyme activity. Sofia Kusnetzova was a specialist in antibiotic research." The conversation continued while, in the Ballistics lab, Nick was speaking with Bobby about the recovered bullets.

* * *

"All your bullets definitely came from one gun, a Colt," Bobby said in his southern drawl. "Based on all the evidence I've been given, I'd say y'all are probably lookin' for a Colt .22in. Trooper Revolver."

"A Trooper Revolver," Nick repeated. "Thanks, man."

"Any time, Nick." With a wave and a nod, Nick walked out of Ballistics and headed back to Grissom's office, appearing in the doorway just as Grissom hung up the phone.

"Hey, Griss. Bobby's got our results."

"Good, Nick. What are they?"

"Looks like a Colt .22in. Trooper Revolver."

"Thanks, Nick. Keep me posted."

"Sure thing." As Nick made his way over to join Archie in the AV lab, Sara and Warrick were busy in the evidence room, going over the Bible and the icons.

* * *

Sara clicked off her mini Maglite. "I think we can clear these," she said, straightening up from where she had been hunched over the table. "No signs of bullet damage, nothing under the ALS. We've got plenty of photographs."

"Great," Warrick replied.

"Let's see what else we've got." Sara reached into the nearest evidence box, pulling out a bag of toiletries. "Looks pretty basic," she said, rummaging through it. "Toothbrushes, toothpaste, lady's razor, man's razor, band-aids—hey, here's something odd."

"What is it?" Warrick asked, walking over from where he had been printing shoes.

"I'm not sure. Small glass bottle, contents appear to be some kind of green liquid. It's got a green cross on the label; maybe it's some kind of medicine."

"Better ask Annie to run it through the GCMS, then," Warrick suggested. As Sara reached back into the box, coming up with a stack of books, Warrick picked up the bottle and walked down to Toxicology. "Hey Annie, you got a minute?"

Annie spun her chair around to face the CSI. "Sure, I'm waiting for the mass spec to finish."

"I've got another one for you to run when it's done."

Annie stood up, put on her nitrile gloves, and picked up the bottle. "I'll run it through to confirm that the label's not lying, but I know what that is, or at least what it claims to be. Zelyonka," she said, pulling out a sterile GC vial and labeling it with a Sharpie pen from the pocket of her lab coat.

"Zelooka?"

"Zelyonka," Annie corrected, taking a sterile autopipetter tip from the autoclave box and setting the pipetter to 250 microliters. "Name is from the Russian word for green. You probably know it better as ethyl green. In this country, it's mostly used by the likes of Greg to stain cells—lovely teal color."

"Well, our vic was a biochemist—but why would she be carrying cell stain with her toothbrush?"

"That's probably not why she was carrying it.," Annie said, shaking her head as she tapped into the GCMS software to pull up her current autosequence. Inserting a hot bake out to clear any traces of the last sample run from the column, she added a line in the sequence for the zelyonka and set the vial in the autosampler tray before handing the bulk bottle back to Warrick. "In the former Soviet Union, it's used as an antiseptic for scraped knees and the like. It gets put on kids a lot because, unlike iodine or alcohol, it supposedly doesn't sting, so it's easier to get them to hold still."

"Man, wish my grandmother had had that stuff when I was growing up…she always doused my scraped knees with rubbing alcohol." He winced, remembering. "Gotta admit, though, they never got infected."

Annie shook her head. "It'll never clear the FDA here."

"Why not?"

"It's extremely dangerous if swallowed, and there's some argument as to whether or not it's a carcinogen."

"Drat. How'd you know all that, anyway?"

"I noticed that it looked like zelyonka when I was using ethyl green as a cell stain in college biology, so I proceeded to hit up Google."

"Ah. Is there anything you can't find on Google these days?"

"I wouldn't count on it," Annie laughed.

"You're probably right," Warrick agreed, taking the bottle back from the lab tech. "I better get back to the evidence. Thanks for the help."

"Sure thing." While Warrick went to rejoin Sara in the evidence room, Annie returned her attention to the monitor, where the GCMS displayed the finished mass spectrum of her sample. "Somebody's in serious trouble," she said to herself, noting the large heroin peak.

* * *

Across the lab, Grissom sat in his office, going through paperwork. Gradually, he became aware of a dull ache over his right eye. He looked up, wincing painfully at the light on his desk. Great. The very beginnings of a migraine. He knew very well what was coming next—throbbing, pulsing pain. That was one thing he most certainly didn't have time for. Carefully taking off his reading glasses and setting them on top of a nearby file folder, he opened the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of prescription migraine medication. Dumping one pill into the palm of his hand, he swallowed it with the remains of his coffee. Clicking off the bright desk lamp, Grissom closed his eyes for a moment. Some sleep would be nice right about now—at least long enough for the Imitrex to kick in. But he'd cheerfully settle for five minutes in a dark, quiet room. He wasn't going to get even that. At that moment, Catherine burst into his office.

"AFIS kicked out a match."

Grissom sat up quickly. "Oh?"

"Yeah, one Jason White."

"Prior record?"

"No. His prints are in the system because he's a desk clerk at the Tangiers."

"If he's a desk clerk, his prints could have a perfectly legitimate reason for being in the room."

"They could," Catherine agreed. "But this particular print is bloody."

"Whose blood is it?" Grissom asked, eyebrows raised.

"Unknown male. The same donor as that blood stain we've been so creatively calling Bloodstain 'C'. The print was found on the underside of the inside door handle. Oh, and did I mention? Mr. White is the registered owner of a Colt .22in. Trooper Revolver."

Grissom picked up his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. "Meet me outside, Cath. I'm going to call Brass. I think we need to have a word with Mr. White," he said with a small smirk.

"One step ahead of you. He'll meet us at the hotel. Let's go—I'll drive."


End file.
